Back when I was very much younger and hornier, there were lots of discussions about The Spot. You know. That critical, yet somehow elusive spot on the female anatomy?
I assumed I knew what everyone was talking even though it never had a name. We never call anything by its proper name because despite there being nothing dirty, offensive, or immoral about using correct names for body parts, we are prissy about sex.
This bashful unwillingness to just say what we mean produces some bizarre communication problems between the sexes. It’s akin to taking a vacation but not being allowed to say the name of the hotel. You can only identify it as The Resort. You are also forbidden to give the street number. It’s “somewhere on Main Street.” Good luck finding your destination.
It’s not only men who can’t find The Spot on wives or girl friends. It’s also persons of the female persuasion who (apparently) can’t find it on themselves.
Say what? A friend of mind commented that even if the finger can’t figure out which does what, the spot itself should immediately contact the brain with the information — DING, DING, DING, THIS IS THE SPOT!
So what’s with all these girls growing up who can’t find it? I’ll bet every little boy in the world knows where his Spot is. He didn’t have to take a seminar. His brain said “Right here!”
More relationships have been destroyed by a woman’s inability to say “A quarter inch to the left, please” than by adultery. The same people who fight, argue, email, text and post online the most intimate details of their lives, are unable to tell a partner that he (she?) is missing The Spot. Oh puleeze.
I thought we got squared away on this 50 years ago. Or more. Apparently not. What are all the people who can’t find The Spot doing in bed?
The time has come for technology to take a hand (no pun intended). We need an app for that. How about one for the iPhone? Grab your phone and like a Geiger counter, it tells you when you’re hot — and when you’re not.
As you zero in, the Hot Spot FinderApp says “YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION!” in stentorian tones. The Hallelujah Chorus starts playing.
Everyone uses a mobile phone for everything, so let’s solve this problem once and for all. Please, give us an app for that!
Everyone loves their cell phone except me, or anyway that’s how it feels. I know there are other people like me who are not enchanted with the technology, but it’s dreadfully unfashionable to express an anti-cell phone opinion.
I am not a fan. It’s not because I’m stodgy and old, though I’m probably both those things among many others. It’s because they are good for almost everything except their original purpose. Making phone calls. The audio quality is pathetic. They disconnect randomly and often. I need reading glasses to see anything on the screen. I could forgive everything else if I could make a phone call — or receive one — and know I’d be able to communicate with the other party with a reasonable likelihood of staying connected all the way to the end of the call while hearing and being heard.
Ironically, our old cell phones, the big klutzy brick like ones we had back in the 90s, were better telephones than the iPhone or any other phone you can get now. They connected, stayed connected. You could hear the person on the other end and they could hear you. The batteries lasted for days, not hours and you could get a signal anywhere. You could have conversations that didn’t include a single “can you hear me?” How amazing is that?
Today’s phones are miniature entertainment centers. But I don’t need an entertainment center. I need a portable telephone. So I can talk to people when I’m away from home. Is that too much to ask?
As for taking pictures on my phone, why? I carry a compact point and shoot wherever I go. It has a superzoom and takes high quality pictures. I like cameras. I have a lot of them. I don’t need my phone to be a camera. Or a movie theater. Or to listen to music. The whole “listening to music on your cell” is weird to me. The speakers are so tinny, why would you want to use them for music? I need a telephone.
I know the younger generations would rather text, but they were born with pointy little thumbs. Alas, but I have big, cumbersome, slow thumbs designed for grasping tools, an advanced monkey version of thumbs.
So I don’t like cell phones, or more accurately, I don’t like the cell phones they make these days. They are light, small and totally adorable. And useless for making phone calls. Which is the only use I have for them. For everything else, I have computers, cameras, readers, GPS, radios, CD players. DVD players, televisions and little music players.
Does anyone actually use their cell phone to call anyone anymore? Just wondering.
Back when I was very much younger and hornier … like really horny most of the time … there was lots of discussion about The Spot. You know. That critical yet somehow elusive spot on the female anatomy? I assumed I knew what everyone was talking about though I was never sure because we can’t call anything by its proper name. Despite there being nothing dirty, offensive or immoral about correct names, we are still prissy about sex.
This produces some truly bizarre communication problems between the sexes. It’s akin to taking a vacation but not being allowed to say the name of the hotel. You can only identify it as The Resort. You are also forbidden to give the street number. Just Somewhere On Main Street. Good luck finding your destination.
It’s not only men who can’t find The Spot on wives or girl friends. It’s also persons of the female persuasion who (apparently) can’t find it on themselves. Say what? A friend of mind commented that even if the finger can’t figure out which bulge or lump does what, the spot itself should immediately contact the brain with the information — DING, DING, DING, THIS IS THE SPOT!
So what’s with all these girls growing up who can’t find it? I’ll bet every little boy in the world knows where his Spot is. He didn’t have to take a seminar. His brain said “Right here!”
More relationships have been destroyed by a woman’s inability to say “About half an inch to the left, please” than by adultery. The same people who fight, argue, email, text and post the most intimate details of their lives on Facebook are unable to tell a partner that he (she?) is missing The Spot. Oh puleeze.
I thought we got squared away on this 50 years ago. Or more. Apparently not. What are all the people who can’t find The Spot doing in bed? Playing canasta?
The time has come for technology to take a hand (no pun intended) in the matter. We need an app for that. How about one for the ubiquitous iPhone? Grab your phone and like a Geiger counter, it tells you when you’re hot — and when you’re not. As you zero in, the Hot Spot FinderApp says “YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION!” in stentorian tones. The Hallelujah Chorus starts playing.
Everyone uses a mobile phone for everything, so let’s solve this problem once and for all. Give us an APP for that!
Karma? Murphy’s Law? A deity that has it in for us? Bad things happen to good people, but annoying things happen to everybody. Constantly.
These daily annoyances are like an itch you can’t scratch. You try to ignore them, but they keep nagging at you. Why, why, why?
Why are we always behind the slowest vehicle on the road? All our roads are two lanes, one in each direction and rarely is there a safe place to pass. It doesn’t matter if we are alone or together, we will be behind the vehicle that ignores the 45 mph speed limit and chooses to drive at 25. And they are going the same place we are. Always.
Why does the thing I can’t find always appear in the exact place I already looked a dozen times? Where was it hiding?
Why is the month always longer than the money?
Why, when I clear our a closet, is it instantly full again?
Why does nobody call me unless I’m out of the house? I’m hardly ever out and I rarely get phone calls.
Why can I never hear my iPhone ring? I can hear the microwave ding from another part of the house, but not the cell phone.
Why do doctors’ and veterinarians’ offices have to call at 8 in the morning to remind me of my appointment two days in the future? Especially since they are using robot calling devices … don’t these people understand about morning?
Why do I never spot the typo until after I publish the post?
Why is the medicine bottle for which I’m looking always the last one out of the bag? Why can’t it be on top?
How do the matching pillow cases always migrate away from the sheets with which they go? They start off together. When do they roam?
To where does the second sock in the pair vanish? They go together into the wash, but only one comes back.
Where is my granddaughter’s hairbrush? It’s a Mason-Pearson. It was expensive. It was still in its original unopened box when it vanished without a trace. Apparently forever.
How did my antique squash blossom wind up in the bottom of my husband’s underwear drawer?
How did my favorite bracelet wind up in the piano bench?
Where did my coffee mug go? I never take the mugs out of the house. I only drink coffee in my office or kitchen. I don’t understand. They keep vanishing. Tell me … is it the terriers again?
Why do I have a rash on my wrist? Am I allergic to my wristwatch? Talk about itch.
Why do you find that thing you’ve lost immediately after you replace it?
Why, when my keyboard stops responding, do I never remember to change the battery before I start running diagnostics? You’d think I’d have learned by now.
These are universal questions. We all could use a few answers, so if anyone out there has answers, I’m all ears. The big issues I will have to deal with, but these? They just itch.
Shortly before Christmas, Garry and I went somewhere and I forgot to bring my cell phone. I asked Garry if I might use his. I was appalled when I could barely hear anything, even with the volume full up and using the speaker. I realized if I could barely hear it, he couldn’t hear it at all. Which brought me to the inevitable conclusion that Garry needed a new cell phone.
Good wife that I am, I figured I’d get him a new phone with better sound so he would not be stuck trying to hear on a phone with such awful audio.
This was early December and Christmas was a couple of weeks off. How long could it possibly take to get a new cell phone, right?
I went online at AT&T, our long-time carrier. I checked to see if he or I was entitled to an upgrade. It turned out both of us were entitled to upgrades, but my phone is just a year old, I don’t use it very much and although I’m entitled to a new phone, I don’t need one. Garry, on the other hand …
This seemed a fairly straightforward process. I checked to see what phones were available on super special, discovered he could get an updated version of the phone he already has for $29.99, with the usual 2 year committment, but we’ve been with AT&T forever anyhow and I don’t see that any of the other carriers are better … so why not? It was the middle of the night, but I called AT&T and was going to order the new version of the Blackberry Curve … but they wanted a credit card and I was already in bed, so I said I’d call tomorrow. I was too tired to get up and deal with it right then.
When I tried to access the website the next day, I couldn’t. Eventually, I called and discovered it wasn’t me, wasn’t a bad password or my computer. AT&T’s servers were being upgraded. I should have guessed. I should have sensed the crackling of crisis in the air. Why they picked early December to do a massive server upgrade is anyone’s guess. It would not have been my first choice.
When I started to place the order, AT&T assured me that they needed to charge me $36 for the upgrade fee. “What upgrade?” I asked. “We already have all the services we need. The only service you are providing is putting the phone in a box and mailing it. You said it’s free shipping … but $36 is a shockingly high shipping charge. Since you aren’t providing any other services, that’s the only thing it could be.”
The young lady to whom I was talking said she couldn’t do anything about it, she was not responsible and everyone had to pay the fee. I said that I was not going to pay the fee and frankly, we’ve been long-term customers and this was shabby treatment indeed. I next learned that I was going to have to pay sales tax on the full list price of the phone, even though we all know that NO ONE pays full retail on anything, much less a cell phone upgrade. Thus this $29.99 had spiraled into around $100 …. which is more than our ultra tight budget could afford.
I said I wanted to talk to a supervisor. I was transferred and eventually, disconnected. Called back, went through the whole story again, was told — again — she couldn’t help me. Said she was transferring me to a department that could help me. When I got to that department, I was told it was the wrong department and I was going to have to go back and talk to the original people who had now two? three? times told me they couldn’t help me.
I would have been laughing but time was passing. I had started this on Sunday night and it was Tuesday. Christmas was creeping up on me and I had yet to actually place an order.
I don’t remember all the people I talked to, all the supervisors to whom I was transferred, all the deals I made only to find that the next person I spoke to had never heard anything about it. It has mercifully become a blur. My husband was cranky because he felt, since he hadn’t actually asked for a phone, I had no reason to expect a lot of sympathy or support. I pointed out he did need a phone and just being his wife ought to entitle me to sympathy and support.
It had indeed been my idea to get him a new phone based purely the uselessness of his old one. But that’s sentimental twaddle. I should have waited until he actually asked me for a phone, preferably begged me on bended knee. Generosity. That was my first mistake.
As the tale continued, it became the story without end. So many departments, so many disconnects. I ran down the battery on my cell phone and on the handset of my house phone, then switched to the other handset And still, no order.
Finally, it was Friday, December 21st. AT&T agreed to waive the charge, give me back a few bucks to compensate for the insane sales tax, and include free shipping. By now, I’d changed from the Blackberry Curve to the iPhone 4 which was on clearance for $0.99 and they swore up and down the east coast I’d have the telephone in my hands on Christmas Eve. Shortly after this amazing promise, I got another call from someone who said whoever promised me Christmas Eve delivery should not have made such a rash promise because who knew if I’d really get the phone? It could be weeks away. Maybe never.
We had been planning to be away from the day after Christmas through the following weekend. If they delivered the phone during that period, it would sit outside in the ice, snow and slush until we got home. But not to worry, she said. If that happened, I could “just send it back.”
I could not cope with the idea of returning the phone. This was bad. Doing it twice would be unbearable. I had been on the telephone with AT&T for more hours in one week than I had been on the phone with everyone else I know during the entire previous year. Granted I’m not on the phone much, but this had eaten at least 25 hours of telephone time … and there seemed to be no end in sight. Ever.
Somewhere during this period, our plans for visiting friends post-Christmas were cancelled because my friend was ill. Despite assurances there was no wayI’d get the phone by Christmas Eve followed by equally passionate assurances I definitely wouldget the phone by Christmas Eve, I simply had no idea when or if I was getting a phone. Would you like to take a guess?
I got the phone Christmas Eve. There it was, a little white box in a bigger brown box. Delivered by FedEx. No bubble pack. Just the phone banging around inside the shipping box. So I waited until the day after Christmas and called about the lack of padding in the box because I didn’t want to wind up with a dead iPhone 4 being told it was somehow my fault. I was assured by someone somewhere that this wouldn’t happen, so I went ahead opened the box and tried setting up the phone.
Nothing worked. What is more, due to the endless legal battles between Google and Apple, Garry’s gmail contact list could not be synchronized with the iPhone.
The first tech support individual, from AT&T, told me that Garry would have to enter all the information by hand. I said “up your nose with a rubber hose” or words to that effect. Garry’s address book has at least 300 entries and I think I’m being conservative. I pointed out that the iPhone is supposed to sync with Outlook and by now, a few disconnects later, I was on the phone with Apple tech support and my cell phone was recharging, the battery having run down to zero again and I was on the second of the two “house phone” handsets, having run through the first phone’s battery. We finally doped out, between him and me, that we had to delete the “cloud” function and NOT synchronize the two email addresses linked to Outlook because it created a conflict and would immediately spew error messages.
When I finally got the iPhone to synchronize with Outlook’s address book, it started demanding a password for voicemail. My head began making a funny buzzing sound that kept getting louder. Were those voices talking to me? Possibly … if only the buzzing would stop and let me think …
Neither Garry nor I has ever needed a password for our voice mail. Not his, not mine, not ever. We didn’t have any passwords to give them. When the Apple tech guy said I’d have to call AT&T to get it sorted out, I went into full meltdown. I could not face another long wait, multiple disconnects … and trying to interface with who knew how many morons before maybe … by New Year’s … I could get through to someone who would know what the problem was and fix it.
Finally, the fellow at Apple who actually seemed to have at least a pretty good knowledge of the product managed to get the address book issue dealt with … said he himself would call AT&T and put us in a conference call and we’d sort the whole thing out. He said he’d call me back and I begged … I think groveling might better describe it … that he really call me back and not leave me hanging.
This was the day after Christmas, the busiest day of the year for tech support what with everyone getting a telephone, tablet, computer, or some other electronic widget under the tree. Likely this didn’t help. But he called back with a man who was obviously not an entry-level tech support guy. He was a Big Gun. You just knew it. He fixed it. He said it was a software artifact from older phones and he was going to delete it from the system and it would never trouble me again.
Then he gave me a $40 credit giving me a small profit on the transaction unless you count my time as being worth money in which case I’m far behind. Far, very far behind.
Garry has a new cell phone. He said “thank you,” and I said “you’re welcome,” but personally, I think I’ve earned a medal at the very least.
So for all the people who told me to “Get a Mac” to solve my problems, I will agree the iPhone is a fine, well-made phone. Was it easy to set up? No. Did it have fewer glitches than my other phones? No. If anything, it had more issues. I got it for a great price and it has, as I had hoped, very loud speakers so Garry can hear it. Hopefully, he’ll get used to the virtual keyboard.
I hate it even more than I hated the tiny raised keys on the Blackberry. I never voluntarily write anything on a cell phone and why Garry does is beyond me.
This whole trial by fire has made me aware of how pathetic my older Blackberry Torch (first generation) is and how I need a new phone. When I’ve recovered from this experience, I will think about replacing it. Why do cell phones need replacing so often? They are so expensive, shouldn’t they last more than a year? Just saying.
Meanwhile, I need to rest and recover my perspective. I have to wait until the story gets funnier. At least until I find my misplaced sense of humor. Then I’ll buy another cell phone.
I watch too many shows about murders and forensics. NCIS, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, CSI, Body of Evidence and so many more. I’ve seen an awful lot of people convicted on blood evidence. I know how incriminating traces of a victim’s blood can make someone look.
This evening, while making dinner, I nicked myself with a paring knife. This isn’t an unusual event. I am not nearly careful enough in the kitchen. I have a bad habit of slicing off the tips of fingers, stabbing myself, then bleeding all over the place. I used to joke that the blood of the cook was mixed in the food, but it wasn’t entirely untrue. My son and my husband both have been known to pull knives out of my hands and chop the veggies themselves because watching me using a knife made them unbearably nervous.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t bleed so much, but I do. This is ironic indeed because when I go for tests at the hospital, they can never find a vein or get any blood out of me. I have suggested I just bring a paring knives, slice open a finger and they can have more blood than they’ll know what to do with, but for some reason, they don’t find this suggestion nearly as funny as I do.
Anyway, I nicked myself cutting up the chicken sausages. It wasn’t a bad cut as these things go and if I hadn’t been in the middle of preparing dinner while simultaneously fighting with the cable company on the telephone, I might have put a band-aid onto my finger faster. Then there wouldn’t have been drops of my blood all over the kitchen. It wasn’t a gusher. Merely a dribbler. Drip. Drip. Drip. Damn, not on my sweater. Blood is so hard to get out of clothing.
After I finally got the food going. I put the knife down, ended the phone call, still snarling at Charter Cable. I really hate those bastards. I made my way to the cupboard, managed to get the blood flow stopped. That was the moment when I realized my blood is all over the kitchen.
It’s from this little nick and all the other cuts, nicks and stabs when I was slicing, dicing, mincing or paring. CSI would have a field day in our kitchen.
If anything ever happens to me and my poor guiltless husband is accused of a crime, they’ll find my blood everywhere. The poor dear will look guilty as hell and all he’s ever done is try to protect me from myself. This is probably the right time point out many of my self stabbings take place while fighting an endless battles with shrink-wrap and other torturous types of packaging.
Have you ever tried to get a couple of blister-packed pills out of their containers in the middle of the night? It said “press here” and you do, but all it does is stretch, the urgently needed medication still out of reach.
I have found myself using hemostats (I use them for stringing dolls; I am not a doctor for living people, only plastic ones) to pull cotton out of pill bottles, stabbing blister packs with tweezers (the only pointy things in my bathroom), using a steak knife to cut the plastic seals on a spray bottle, attacking packing tape with a hunting knife. I have two knives — a 4″ folding knife with a turquoise handle and a 5″ sheath knife with a deer antler handle. Nobody has taken them away from me yet, but that’s possibly because I hide them.
I cut myself regularly, but I also damage the contents of packages in my frenzied attempt to actually extract whatever is in there with any tools I have at hand. My favorite tool is a box cutter which I have used for things like prying the back off my Blackberry to get at the battery. It isn’t supposed to require special tools, but my Blackberry Torch was hermetically sealed against owner interference. Unfortunately, taking the back off and removing the battery is the only way to reboot the phone. I gave up and got an iPhone, not because I like the iPhone better. I don’t. I just couldn’t battle my way into the battery compartment one more time.
I do not set out to do myself injury, but in the contest of me against packaging, packaging is clearly winning.
Thus you can find traces of my blood everywhere I’ve ever opened a package and everywhere in my kitchen. You’ll find blood evidence on my computer keys, my mouse, my knives, tweezers and especially my beloved box cutter. I hide my box cutter, always afraid someone will take it from me in a pointless (sorry about the pun) attempt to save me from myself.
If CSI comes here, just show them this post. Maybe they won’t send anyone up for life on my behalf.
It started yesterday evening, but I didn’t get to really thinking about it until this morning. I got up a lot earlier than I needed to. My husband was trying to be quiet. But I’m a light sleeper and I heard him tiptoeing around the bedroom and realized I was hearing Heart and Soul in my head. Not a good sign.
I was humming it while pouring my coffee. It just kept looping until I wanted to scream at myself to shut up. I have an Energizer Bunny (brand name) brain that keeps going and going and going.
When My Brain is unhappy it wants me to hum. My mother hummed constantly, probably for the same reason I do. It’s calming. I do it when I’m worried, even when I’m angry. I don’t choose the song; it chooses itself. Apparently humming inane tunes calms the Brain while annoying me. Never mind. Anything to make Brain happy.
The problem? A series of events starting when, a few minutes after midnight, Charter Communications (brand name) went down. Charter (brand name) is a wretched organization. It controls our lives by controlling our connectivity including the telephone and TV. It has an unbreakable monopoly in our area, a position it uses to charge exorbitant prices while doing a genuinely inept job and providing horrible service.
Charter’s (brand name) signal has been erratic for at least a week, but now, it was gone. No Internet. No telephone. Barely television. I heaved a sigh. After expelling three small dogs and a collie from my lap I stood up, groaned to let the world know how much I suffer (I don’t believe in silent suffering). And went to reboot The Modem, hub of my universe.
I rebooted. Which is to say I unplugged it, counted, plugged it back in and waited for the lights to come on. For the magic to happen. The lights flickered then faded. So I did it again, counting longer and a bit slower while unplugging and replugging the router too.
Same result. I looked around for something else to do. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything. I didn’t know if the problem was hardware or Charter (brand name) or some bizarre issue I hadn’t yet thought of. The router and modem are both Cisco (brand name) and not old. Until now, totally dependable.
When things go wrong with techno stuff, I have Dark Thoughts. I know too much but not enough. If the modem won’t reboot, is it dead? How long will it take to get a new one? Installed? Dark Thoughts indeed.
To prove I had not failed in my duty as 24/7 tech support for the household’s 12 computers (five people, 12 computers including three tablets but not counting iPods (brand name), iPhones (brand name) and other small WiFi-based devices such as the Roku (brand name). I turned off all the computers on this floor (seven) and then tried rebooting the modem again. Because amidst the many messages telling me to reboot the modem, I’d gotten one that said two computers were trying to use the same IP address and I should talk to the administrator (me). I figured if I rebooted all the computers, they’d do whatever it is they do and that would take care of the IP problem, if indeed there was one (there wasn’t).
Panic. Fear. Trembling. I starting humming loudly. Heart and Soul. Heart and Soul. I fell in love with you. Heart and Soul.
I do not panic quickly or easily. There are two things on earth which do it to me. Finding a spider in my bed and losing my WiFi connection. Otherwise, I’m pretty level-headed. I have put out fires including putting out a friend in flames. I have dealt with a husband having a heart attack and a child having a seizure without panicking. But losing WiFi? Irrational, frantic, don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-a-crazy-person panic.
I figured I ought to call Charter (brand name), except how could I get their telephone number without the computer? Then I thought I might have it in the address book of my iPhone (brand name). Which made me wonder when I’d last charged the phone (last week?). Where is the phone? I couldn’t do what I usually do and call it from the house phone because we didn’t have a house phone. No cable. No modem. No signal.
I found the phone, remarkably enough right where it belonged. Hmm. Imagine that. I plugged it into life support (electricity) and called Charter (brand name). I hate calling Charter (brand name). I hate Charter’s (brand name) so-called customer service. I know everyone hates their cable company but that’s not comforting. The whole “misery loves company” thing eludes me. Miserable company doesn’t make me happier. It just reminds me I’m miserable.
I called Charter (brand name).
After I got through the robot wall of prompts (press 1 or 2 or 7 or 9 or STAR to do what?) and finally got a person by shouting “AGENT, AGENT, AGENT” into the handset until the robot said “Oh FINE, I’ll connect you with an agent.”
And the agent said “Oh, yes, uh huh. There’s an outage. A big one. Your whole area is out.”
She didn’t seem to find this alarming. She had no idea how long it will take to fix. I found that alarming. “Would you like us to call you with updates?”
I said my phone was out and all I had was a cell phone. She offered to call my cell phone. I said sure, why not because by then, everything would be fixed and who would care anyhow? She said “Have a nice evening and thank you for using Charter Communications (brand name).”
I was humming Heart and Soul very loudly and rocking.
I gave up and went to bed. I couldn’t read the book I wanted on my Kindle (brand name) because it’s somewhere in Amazon’s (brand name) cloud. I can’t get it delivered without WiFi. It got me thinking (again) about abandoning internal and external hard drives in favor of putting everything in The Mythical Cloud. How dangerous and stupid it is. BECAUSE THERE IS NO CLOUD.
There are just lots of huge servers all over the world storing your data. When we put our stuff and our faith in “the cloud,” we are actually handing our stuff over to corporate servers. You and me and everyone else will be at the mercy of whoever owns the servers. How honest are they or their employees? How safe is your data? Who manages the servers? And where are they? Pakistan? Russia? Kyrgyzstan? China? Anyone can run a server farm anywhere without any kind of license. You just need a climate controlled space and equipment.
After we’ve given up control of our files, photos, music, books and videos, we need a high-speed data line and we need it all the time. If you think you are dependent on the company which provides your connectivity now, after you are locked into The Cloud, that dependency rises to a whole new level. Too high for me.
Still feel like trusting everything to the Cloud? It’s a scam and we’re buying it. As soon as enough of us are in their clutches, the “free cloud storage” won’t be free. Worse, the big brand software companies — Adobe (brand name) Microsoft (brand name) and many more — are already refusing to sell their products outright. We will have to rent from them and it isn’t cheap. How does $49/month for Photoshop (brand name) sound to you? Sounds like a big piece of my fixed income to me.
We won’t own anything, not our files, software, nothing. In addition to the mega-bill we already pay for cable or other high-speed service, we’ll pay a monthly fee for each piece of software. Our cost of living will keep going up, but not our incomes.
Remember, you heard it here on Serendipity (brand name).